Sing for Absolution
by MissWah
Summary: Sherlock leaves the wedding and goes back to Baker Street to drown his sorrows, thinking that no one noticed his early exit.
1. Chapter 1

After leaving the wedding Sherlock walked around aimlessly for over an hour. He had no one to go home to anymore, and he really wasn't looking forward to the prospect of going back to an empty flat. That's all it was now- just a flat. Home was where John Watson was. And he'd spent the last two years of his life trying to protect his home, only to discover it had become someone else's.

He'd done his best to look happy at the wedding because he knew how much it would hurt John if he'd acted like, well… like Sherlock. He had avoided deducing the guests, done his best to make up for the insults, and generally tried to be more pleasant. Each word that came out of his mouth and each expression that crossed his face was agonised over beforehand. It was exhausting.

When everyone had started crying during his speech he had worried that he'd said something wrong, but John's hug reassured him that he hadn't done it wrong after all. The guests were simply crying because they were emotional. _Sentiment._

Sherlock was quite proud of himself for his performance at the wedding. That is up until he deduced Mary's pregnancy. He'd had his suspicions; of course- he was the world's only consulting detective after all- but he didn't want to say anything until he was certain. In retrospect he now realised he'd kept his suspicions to himself so that he could get used to the idea of completely losing John. After all, why would he need him anymore?

 _Well you're hardly going to need me around now that you've got a real baby on the way._

The fact that neither John nor Mary had denied that fact hurt more than he could have imagined. No one would ever choose Sherlock Holmes over anyone else, much less over starting their own family.

John was clearly beyond happy, as was Mary. Sherlock knew exactly how they felt. It was the same way Sherlock himself had felt after he realised how much John meant to him. The rush and excitement and joy of having someone by your side unconditionally. Someone who complements you in every way.

But it was all over now. At least, for Sherlock.

The realisation hit him right after delivering the news about the baby. He felt what little happiness he had left slip away. He was going to lose John, and there was no way to get him back.

So he put on a brave face for as long as he could. Made sure John and Mary danced, made sure no one noticed anything that might give away the news, and then he turned around to find himself surrounded by people, but utterly alone.

There had been a split second when he thought he might not have to put on a brave face after all, but the relief was swept away as soon as he realised that Janine was dancing with someone else; someone he had helped her pick over him, just like he had let John pick Mary over him when he left.

He didn't want John to know how much it was hurting him. It wouldn't be fair to ruin his 'big day' as Mrs Hudson had so cheerfully put it. So he turned around and walked away; unable to keep up the pretence anymore, unable to keep the pain away from his expression.

 _I mean, who leaves a wedding early? So sad._

Her words reverberated in his head as he left. He should have known he wouldn't be able to keep John to himself. The fact that John had only settled down after Sherlock's 'death' made him wonder if what had been stopping that from happening before was the detective's presence. Was the only reason John and Mary had managed to stay together the fact that Sherlock hadn't been there to ruin yet another of John's relationships?

Maybe he should have stayed gone.

The thought had crossed his mind more times than he liked to admit. He'd been eager to return to London at first but once he saw how everyone had moved on without him he felt out of place.

So he went to the only place that still made sense. The place where he'd built a home for himself. And even though it felt like half of it had been stripped away, Sherlock still held on to the memories they had created there.

He walked into 221 Baker Street and slowly made his way up the stairs. He was feeling lethargic and, if he was honest with himself, a little bit depressed.

Once he stumbled into his- no longer his and John's flat, he thought with a pang- he collapsed on the sofa without even taking off his coat. He sat and stared off into the distance for a few minutes before deciding to search the kitchen for something to drink, and this time he wasn't looking for tea.

He couldn't stop all the thoughts in his head and he knew he wouldn't be able to handle it for very long. He felt sadness and loneliness gripping him and desperately search for a way to curb these feelings. He knew what it would take, but he didn't want to go down that road again, even though he knew it would lead to blissful oblivion.

Contrary to what most people seemed to think, he hadn't spent many of his teenage years doing drugs because he was bored. But to avoid yet another hit to his sobriety he decided that the bottle of scotch he'd found in the kitchen would have to do.

He opened the bottle, poured himself a drink before closing it again, and then downed it all in one go.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough to put a stop to all the thoughts assaulting his mind. All the months spent living with John. All the months spent away trying to get back to him. And now all the months he would spend alone.

Open. Pour. Close. Drink

Again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn't long before he lost count of how much he'd had, but that still didn't quell the feeling of loneliness. His mind had decided that now would be a good time to wonder how the wedding was going. Were John and Mary still dancing? Were they hidden away from everyone so they could be alone? Had they left already?

It didn't matter in the end. John had Mary. Mary had John. And Sherlock had no one.

He discarded the empty glass and simply picked up the bottle, taking a long swig. He screwed his eyes shut as it burned its way through him. He hoped it would eat away at the memories.

Getting up, he stumbled into the kitchen. It was only when he set the bottle down on the counter that he realised his hand was shaking.

He tried to tell himself that it was the alcohol. Or the insomnia. Or even the rising panic he was feeling. But deep down he knew what it was. The words post-traumatic stress disorder floated around in his head and he tried to shake them away.

Clearly he hadn't had nearly enough to drink if he could still think clearly or at least about as clearly as the average person. So he searched the kitchen again for anything he could, now that the bottle of scotch was nearly empty. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he couldn't decide, he found another bottle.

He downed the last of the first bottle before opening the second and taking it back to the living room with him. This time he decided to do away with the glass altogether and simply sat in front of the sofa taking drink after drink.

Eventually his mind fell blessedly quiet.

His head lolled to the side, his legs contorted between the sofa and the table, and he watched detachedly as the tremor in his hand worsened.

He couldn't bring himself to care. Not about the tremor, not about the outfit he was crumpling up, not about the awful hangover he would no doubt have tomorrow morning.

After a few moments he felt his eyes fall shut and decided not to fight it. What was the point after all? There was nothing he could do today to change what was happening. Hell, there was nothing he could do tomorrow or any day after that.

 _Well, it's the end of an era, isn't it?_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sluggishly opened his eyes. He thought he'd heard the front door open a few seconds ago, but when he scanned the room he could see nothing. He eyed the bottle in his hand, noting detachedly that what little was left in it had spilled on the floor.

He picked up the bottle so it wouldn't spill any further on Mrs Hudson's carpet before attempting to get up. It was harder than he'd imagined, but after a few minutes of struggling he managed to stand, albeit with a little help from the furniture.

What was he supposed to do now? Normally he would be out working a case or conducting an experiment or updating his blog. Now he didn't feel like doing any of those things. For the past few months he had devoted most of his time to planning the wedding down to the smallest detail. But now the wedding was over, and from now on Sherlock would have nothing to do with it. He was sure that John would no longer be able to accompany him on cases, even if he had said nothing would change.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ He thought to himself.

"What the hell are you doing?

He looked up to see John standing right in front of him.

"Oh god, not again," he groaned.

"What?" John questioned in an angry, clipped tone.

Sherlock slowly and dizzily walked over to his chair and sat down. His eyes were only half open and his words were slurring. "You always show up when it's most inconvenient, John," he half-heartedly complained.

Sherlock's recollections of John- he absolutely refused to call them hallucinations- had been getting progressively worse during his time away. He thought that after his return they would disappear, but they hadn't. He still saw and heard John when he wasn't there; his mind trying to fill in the gap his heart couldn't deal with.

He had to admit that this had been helpful at times though. Whenever he felt his grip on his sobriety slip John would always appear to pull him back from the edge. He knew that John hadn't really been there, and that at the end of the day Sherlock had ended up saving himself, but it was easier to think that someone else cared enough to stop him.

"I honestly thought that this would have stopped happening after Serbia, but I guess not," he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

John walked over determinedly and gripped Sherlock by the shoulders, staring intently at him. "Sherlock, what in the hell are you talking about?"

He shrugged his shoulder so that John would loosen his grip on him and stared back. "You know precisely what I'm talking about. After all, you're me," Sherlock giggled. "I'm talking about your little appearances every time I… how should I put it? Overdo myself."

Sherlock brought his hand up and started counting on his fingers. "First time was at Mycroft's house when I got drunk after I heard your little speech at my grave," he began, his words slurring more and more. "Then there was the first time I had a little slip up, and the time after that was when I did actually overdose." He looked up thoughtfully for a second. "I really shouldn't have done that. You wouldn't be pleased if you found out. Well, the real you anyway, _you_ don't care. I don't." He shrugged nonchalantly. "After that I only remember Serbia. That was a hard one to forget," he reflected.

By now John had sat down in his own chair, opposite Sherlock. His face harboured a horrified expression.

 _Probably what John would look like if he ever did find out._ Sherlock mused.

Now that Sherlock had finished talking John took a deep breath and sat forward, elbows on his knees. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and held it in his own. "Sherlock," he started calmly, "who do you think you're talking to?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I suppose technically I'm talking to myself, since you're not real."

John nodded, his suspicion confirmed. "Sherlock, I'm right here. I'm real."

"You can't be, you're at the wedding," Sherlock said decisively.

"No, I'm not. I came by after I realised you'd left by yourself," he said, "I tried calling you but you didn't answer. I got worried."

Sherlock still didn't believe him. The alcohol was clearly getting to him if he couldn't accept the fact that he was imagining John, just like so many other times.

Exhausted, he let his head loll to the side once again and closed his eyes. A long sigh escaped his lips. "You're never coming back to me," he said, with a grim smile on his face.

John was left speechless at what he had just witnessed. Sherlock truly believed he wasn't real. And he was completely aware of it, like it had happened before. Something which Sherlock himself had admitted.

He knew that Sherlock hadn't come back quite the same, but he'd never realised how broken his best friend really was.

After sitting in the quiet of Baker Street for about ten minutes John decided that the only thing he could do for Sherlock right now was get him to bed.

He stood in front of the detective, who was sleeping like the dead, and gently took off his coat and waistcoat. Once he managed to do that he manoeuvred Sherlock so that he could pick him up.

It wasn't easy, but it also wasn't nearly as hard as he'd expected it to be. Even though Sherlock was tall he was also incredibly thin, and much too light for a man his age and height. John cringed inwardly.

Setting one arm under his best friend's knees and the other under his neck John walked over to Sherlock's room and gently deposited him on the bed. After laying him down on his side and covering him up, he slipped out the door.

He was at a complete loss as to what to do now. He couldn't leave Sherlock like this. Not just because he'd been stinking drunk but because of his mental state as well. Sherlock was not okay. And if Sherlock wasn't okay, neither was John.

He had to do something.

He called Mary and explained the situation to her. John apologised profusely for leaving her alone on their wedding day but she cut him off before he could finish, telling him to stay with Sherlock until he was okay and even offering to bring over a change of clothes for John, knowing that he would be unwilling to leave Sherlock alone.

Sighing in relief John sat in his chair and wondered how he could even begin to deal with Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke up the next morning with a raging headache. He groaned as he sat up on the bed and looked around confusedly. He didn't remember getting to his room last night, much less into bed.

After taking a few seconds to get his bearings he slowly got up off the bed but lost his balance before standing up and ended up splayed on the floor. He heard the sound of footsteps coming towards the door and wondered if Mrs Hudson had already come up to make his tea.

He was more than a little surprised when he looked up to see John Watson standing over him.

"Oh god, you were actually here last night," he groaned, and banged his head lightly on the floor in exasperation.

John leaned down to help him up. "I'm surprised you remember."

"Trust me, I wish I didn't," Sherlock replied. He eyed John critically, trying to ascertain what mood he was in.

His words from last night were starting to come back to him and he cringed at the thought of all the things John had found out. "I take it this is the part where we talk about what happened?"

"Precisely," John said. "It'll be swell," he added sarcastically.

"Aw shit," Sherlock swore as he sat on the bed with his head in his hands, already dreading the conversation ahead. "Surely you have something better to do. Aren't you supposed to be on your sex holiday?"

John's facial expression hardened. "It's called a honeymoon, Sherlock," he replied sternly. "And for the record, I would be if I hadn't come here last night to find my best friend completely drunk out of his mind, thinking he was hallucinating and acting like it was a perfectly okay thing to do."

By the end of the exchange John was shouting, anger and fear lacing his tone. Last night's behaviour was so out of character for Sherlock that John couldn't control his temper.

It had never been easy to talk to Sherlock about how he was feeling when they were living together and John didn't imagine it would be any easier now. He was dreading the conservation about as much as the detective.

Sherlock felt guilt clutching at him after John's outburst. He'd been so careless last night, both because of how much he'd had to drink and because of what he'd said. He was still shocked that he'd talked to John so normally. He'd always been able to distinguish between the real John and the not so real John, whether it be his voice or his whole presence. But clearly the alcohol had clouded his mind. Maybe a little more than he had initially intended.

A silence had fallen over the room, which Sherlock only dared to break after he observed John's breathing rate regain a somewhat controlled rhythm. "Would you at least let me have a shower before we talk"?

John sighed loudly, but conceded. "Yeah, sure. But when you're done you're going to eat some breakfast and we're going to talk about what happened."

"Yes, mother," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he walked away.

As Sherlock walked over to the bathroom he tried to recall what he had said last night. While his memory wasn't as fuzzy, or possibly non-existent, as it should be, he was pretty sure he didn't remember everything he had said, which worried him. He didn't want to reveal to John any more than he already had.

Once he was inside he closed the door behind him and laid his forehead against it. His head was still pounding, his mouth felt incredibly dry and he really didn't want to deal with John's worries right now. It had been bad enough to be lectured by Mycroft after his little slip it, and every slip up after that. He blamed himself enough as it was, and he really didn't need anyone else adding to that guilt.

After being clean for so many years, it was quite a blow to relapse as badly as he had done.

He tried not to think about it as he shed his clothes and stepped into the warm shower, staying under the cascading water as long as he thought John would allow without breaking down the door and demanding that Sherlock stop putting off their conversation. He really didn't put it past John to do just that.

After drying off and getting into his pyjamas and dressing gown Sherlock walked into the kitchen and wordlessly took the toast and tea that John had made for him. He then sat down on the sofa in the living room and just waited.

John watched everything curiously; surprised, and at the same time relieved, that he didn't have to force Sherlock to eat.

He joined the detective on the sofa and sat silently wondering where exactly he was supposed to begin this conversation. Sherlock had managed to spill so many hidden truths in so little time that he had no idea where to start.

He counted things off in his head. Firstly, there was the drinking; he'd never known Sherlock to consume alcohol, much less get completely plastered. Then there was the relaxed attitude towards thinking he was hallucinating John. Then there was the relapse, and even more worriedly, the overdose. And finally there was one final nagging thought: Serbia. What exactly had happened there that made it so hard for Sherlock to forget?

He didn't know what Sherlock had been through in his time away dismantling Moriarty's network. But it seemed one instance had been bad enough that Sherlock had actually let it slip out, even if he did think he was talking to himself.

John wasn't sure what was more frightening; imaging what could have possibly happened, or finding out the truth. Either way, he was going to have to talk to Sherlock about it.

He was painfully aware of how difficult that would be. The detective was more closed off than anyone he had ever met. But John was hoping that Sherlock's defences were down after the night he had, and maybe, just maybe, he would be able to find out the truth and help his friend.

He set his tea down on the table and turned to Sherlock, who was steadfastly avoiding John's faze by hiding behind his own mug.

"So," John began, "is there anything you want to tell me?"


	4. Chapter 4

" _So," John began, "is there anything you want to tell me"?_

"It hardly matters what or if I want to tell you anything, you're going to ask anyway," Sherlock said, still hiding his face behind the mug. "So just go ahead."

"Why did you leave the wedding early?" John asked, surprising Sherlock and even himself.

"Out of everything that I said yesterday, you want to know why I left your wedding early?" Sherlock questioned, feeling for once, that repetition was not as dull as he usually deemed it.

"Yes, because I don't understand," John replied, his voice laced with emotion.

Sherlock scoffed.

"Don't take the piss, Sherlock, I'm being serious. One minute you're talking to me and Mary, and the next you're gone.

"Well, all my duties as best man had been fulfilled, you had no need for me there."

"Yes, I did! You're my best man, Sherlock. My best friend."

Sherlock was trying hard to reign in his emotions but it was difficult with John trying to tear at the walls he had put up. He didn't want to tell John how lonely he'd been feeling lately. He didn't want to tell him how sad it had made him to not be able to dance at his best friend's wedding. He didn't want to tell him that he had left early in fear someone would notice his loneliness and do nothing about it. "You have Mary now… and the baby, you're hardly going to need me."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. He forgot sometimes just how vulnerable Sherlock could be, especially when it came to relationships, of any kind. Behind the rough exterior laced with genius and insults was a man who just wanted a companion. "This child and Mary are not going to replace you," John said encouragingly. "Where is this coming from?"

Sherlock remained silent and avoided looking at John. He knew that, as much as he didn't want to, if he opened his mouth he would tell John everything.

"Sherlock, talk to me," John encouraged as he put his hand lightly on Sherlock's knee.

"There is nothing to say, John," he replied irritably.

"The hell there isn't!" John snapped. "You can't expect me to believe there's nothing wrong when last night you came home and got drunk."

"Plenty of people get drunk, John. You know that better than most, it's no big deal," Sherlock said, wincing at his own words. He knew that any mention of Harry, no matter how subtle, was a low blow, but he was starting to get defensive.

John's hand slipped off Sherlock's knee and clenched into a fist. He knew why Sherlock had said that, but it didn't make it any less upsetting. But he trudged on, knowing that the detective's reaction meant John was getting closer to finding out the real reason behind everything. "It's a big deal when you think you're hallucinating. And you act perfectly normal about it and then…," he gulped in another breath before continuing, "and then you tell me all the stuff that happened while you were away."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Spare me the sentiment, John," he replied harshly. He could no longer control the words coming out of his mouth. All he wanted was to tell John everything that had happened and everything he was feeling, but a part of him would not let him. And that part clearly thought that the only way to avoid telling John everything was to be as horrible and unpleasant as possible.

"The second I came back you were at my throat, literally I might add, and you refused to speak to me. At least until your pride prevented you from ignoring me further because I pulled you out of that fire. Even then you questioned what I'd done while I was away. What exactly did you think I was doing, John?" Sherlock's voice had grown louder and louder with each word. All the pent up emotions were pouring out and there was no stopping them.

John was shocked at the outburst. He'd never seen Sherlock like this before. To others he would have seemed angry, but John knew him better than anyone, and he wasn't angry. Sherlock Holmes was hurt.

The detective stood up suddenly, took off his dressing gown and pulled his t-shirt up. "This is what I was doing," he said, showing John the scars that littered his back. "I was captured, and questioned, and tortured, and starved and you know what for? For you. For you, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. Because you're three of the very, very few people in this world who tolerate me- maybe even like me. And because if I hadn't jumped and left and chased Moriarty's network all across the globe you would all be dead by now. And I was never going to let that happen. _Ever._ "

John stared at Sherlock, frozen in place. He couldn't stop imagining all the things his friend had been through, couldn't stop imaging what it would take to leave scars like that after such a long time.

He shuddered.

Sherlock went on.

"I couldn't let anything happen to any of you so I did what I had to to keep going. I couldn't think about the fact that you would be disappointed in me because I relapsed. I couldn't think about the fact that the overdose meant another mess for Mycroft to take care of. Or that you were here alone. Or that I was alone. Or," his voice cracked, his emotions finally getting the better of him. "I couldn't think that I'd given in to the biggest disadvantage I could think of."

Before he even had a chance to process everything Sherlock had just said John asked, "What disadvantage?"

"Love," Sherlock replied softly. "As much as I've tried to distance myself from people and from emotion there have been a very select few which I have been unable to distance myself from. The few people who accept me for who I am and don't try to fix me. I couldn't let anything happen to any of you, no matter what the cost."

John's mouth had fallen open at Sherlock's admission, never having expected to hear something like that come out of his best friend's mouth. He was left frozen and speechless.

The lack of response was too much for Sherlock, who was buzzing with uncertainty and fear. He was so angry at himself for having said everything, for having done exactly what he hadn't wanted to. John's stillness was the last straw.

He raced across the flat and fled to his bedroom, slamming the door shut and leaving a stunned John in his wake.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sherlock walked down the corridor slowly, eyeing each and every door he passed carefully. He was looking for a very specific room; somewhere he would be able to calm down and clear his mind after everything that had just happened. Unfortunately, there weren't many places where he could do that._

 _He searched every door he passed, looking for the name of someone who had always been there for him and someone who, to this day, it still hurt to think about._

 _It only took a few seconds before he finally found it. He ran his fingers lightly over the name carefully etched on the door._

Redbeard.

 _This wasn't the room he would usually go to in order to calm down, but lately he found that that particular room was filled with too much regret and longing. John's room had become a reminder of everything he had put his best friend through, as opposed to a reminder of all the wonderful times they had spent together._

 _Shaking his head to rid himself of the very thoughts he was trying to avoid, Sherlock turned the knob and cautiously walked in. He was worried that, in his altered state, the room may have changed to include other memories he did not want to deal with right now. He was relieved to find only his companion bounding towards him excitedly. He dropped down to the same level as Redbeard, feeling a genuine smile spread across his face, and stroked the soft fur of his, first, best friend._

 _He felt the tension leaving his body with every excited tail wag he witnessed. His mind started slowing down, the unwanted thoughts pushed to the back with every lick pressed to his cheek._

 _What felt like hours passed before Sherlock heard a distant knocking. He pressed his ear to the door of Redbeard's room, and hearing no change in volume deduced that the knocking must be coming from the real world._

 _He elected to ignore it._

 _But the guilt he had been fastidiously ignoring since going into his mind palace was gnawing at him again. With every knock on the door he felt his anxiety level rising. He couldn't exactly hide out in his mind palace forever. He was fairly confident that John would figure out a way to pull him back if he felt so inclined._

 _He gave himself five minutes to say goodbye to Redbeard before sadly closing the door behind him. he walked down the corridor once more, delaying his exit as much as he could by looking closely at every door he passed._

 _Eventually though, there was no more delaying him, and he let himself return to the real world._

He opened his eyes and noticed, with some surprise, that his bedroom door was still locked. He half expected John to break it down if he took too long to respond. Heaving a deep sigh, he finally spoke. "What do you want, John?"

"Can you come out, please?" came the reply from the other side.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. John didn't sound angry, which was unexpected. Normally when they had an argument and Sherlock stalked off to his room to 'sulk like a child' as John so eloquently put it, the doctor would either pound on the door until Sherlock opened it and they finished talking or he would leave until he had calmed down. He was not expecting a polite request to come out of his room.

He gulped and took a deep breath before speaking, lest his voice betray his nervousness. "What for?"

His question was met with silence.

He decided that the best course of action would be to come out of his room and see exactly what John wanted from him. He stood up and warily walked up to the door and turned the knob.

John was standing just outside, a calm look on his face. Sherlock felt more and more wary. This wasn't like John at all. This wasn't the anger and indignation that came out during so many of their arguments, nor the quiet anger masking concern that Sherlock so often brought out of him.

"What's that for?" he asked, pointing at the various items scattered across the kitchen table. John motioned for Sherlock to take a seat at the table and the detective did so, slowly shuffling along until he sat down.

John followed close behind and hovered next to Sherlock. "I thought I'd clean up some of those wounds on your back. They look like they haven't been properly looked at.

He waited until Sherlock nodded to put on some gloves. "Would you mind taking off your dressing gown and t-shirt, please?"

Sherlock did as he was told and heard a sharp intake of breath as his back was once again exposed. He hadn't had a look in a long time but he was certain there were more than a few scars left by some of the deeper cuts and the ones he had let get infected.

It took only a couple of seconds for John to regain his composure. He lightly ran his fingers over each and every single one of them, and there were many. With each line he traced he imagined the amount of force required to leave such a mark. He imagined the tools that had to have been used to go so deep. He imagined the matching psychological scars Sherlock must have.

After examining them he cleaned them, though he doubted it would make much difference now. Nevertheless, it calmed him down to go through the motions. He lightly bandaged them and quickly went into Sherlock's room to retrieve a fresh and comfortable t-shirt for the detective to wear.

He handed the t-shirt over. "You can put this on now. You already know this but try not to put too much strain on your back, some of those cuts look like they still have some healing to do."

Sherlock carefully put the t-shirt on, covering the evidence of the two years he spent away, and uttered a quiet "Thank you, John."

John cleared his throat, "It's the least I could do. Literally." After putting everything away he walked around the table and put the kettle on. "Tea?"

When the detective gave no reply John looked over to find him with his head bowed and his shoulders shaking slightly. He quickly ran over to his best friend and dropped down in front of him, trying to get a look at his face. "What's the matter, Sherlock?" he asked urgently, his voice laced with concern.

Another sniffle overtook the detective, this time loud and harsh. It was clear he was trying to control himself, but it was just as clear that he was failing. "I can still remember it." His voice was croaky, his eyes full on unshed tears. "I can remember every single thing they did and said and-" he gulped and tried, unsuccessfully, to take a deep breath, "I can still remember," he finished with a near whisper.

Struggling through a shaky breath Sherlock continued. "You were there sometimes, in my head. When I couldn't go to my mind palace you would show up. It was almost like you were really there, even though you didn't say anything." Sherlock finally stopped hiding his face and looked John right in the eye. "You were the only thing that kept me going."

And with that admission Sherlock finally broke down. Tears fell down his face, his shoulders shook uncontrollably and his breathing hitched repeatedly.

Throughout the whole thing, John held him in his arms.


	6. Chapter 6

After a few minutes Sherlock managed to stop the tears, and in a rare admission of what he would call weakness he wrapped his arms tightly around John and buried his head in the crook of John's shoulders.

John held on to him tighter and started stroking Sherlock's curls in a soothing manner. When Sherlock didn't pull away, he braved making quiet shushing sounds in the hopes of calming him down. He then wiped at his own tears with his free hand.

They stayed like that for a long time until Sherlock had finally calmed down and only the occasional hitched breath lingered. He slowly extricated himself from John's embrace, but as he did so John held on to his hand and refused to let go.

He looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were puffy and red rimmed. "Feel better now?" Sherlock could only nod. "Are you ready to listen to me?" Sherlock nodded again.

"Okay, good, listen carefully," John said as he cleared his throat. "Sherlock Holmes, you are and always will be my best friend. There is not a single person in this universe or any other that could _ever_ replace you."

The two men held each other's gaze intently, Sherlock hanging on to every word and John making sure he did so. "Sherlock, I am so, so sorry," he continued. Sherlock looked confused, but said nothing. "I'm sorry I didn't see it before. I know I'm not as clever or observant as you but I should have noticed.

"Noticed what?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John eyed him sadly, "How much you're hurting."

A sigh of relief came whooshing out of Sherlock. This was what he had been waiting for since his return. For someone to observe, not just see. He was so relieved that someone had finally realised that he wasn't nearly as okay as he wanted everyone to believe, that he didn't have the heart to deny anything John had said. He may be a good actor, but John had always seen past his acts and confronted him about it.

"My best friend came back from the dead after two years of being away taking down a criminal network to protect me and the people he loves and I didn't think that maybe that would have repercussions." John sighed, disappointed in himself. Not only was he Sherlock's best friend, he was also a doctor. "I should have kept an eye on you. I should have noticed you were injured and hurt and upset and I'm sorry I didn't."

Sherlock placed his own hand over John's, and held on to it tightly. "You did more for me than you can imagine."

John scoffed. "I can't take credit for what a hallucination of me did for you, Sherlock."

"But you can," Sherlock reassured him. "The greatest strength I had when I was out there by myself was you. I had something to come back to, no matter what happened. You saved my life, John."

"You saved mine first." John tried to blink back tears. He wasn't used to these displays of affection, much less with Sherlock. The few times he'd let himself show his true emotions had either been life and death situations or when he was alone. Even then it was difficult for him.

He had been shocked to hear all the wonderful things Sherlock had said about him at the wedding. Not because he didn't think they were true, but because it meant so much that Sherlock had talked freely about them in front of so many strangers. Somehow that had made it even more special, and in the face of Sherlock's confusion when the tears began to flow he could no longer resist the urge to hug his best friend. To show him how much he appreciated his words and everything he had done for John.

It seemed Sherlock felt the same way because he dropped down from the chair onto the floor in front of John and hugged him.

John returned the hug as soon as he realised what was happening, holding on to his friend tightly, as though that would keep them both from crumbling.

The comfortable silence stretched on for a few seconds before John groaned, "My knees are killing me," an amused smile on his face.

Sherlock pulled back and started laughing, all the pent up emotions of the last few minutes being released in that laughter. John quickly joined him and soon they were both near tears again, but for a completely different reason. Every time they stopped they'd look at each other and start laughing all over again.

It was a few minutes before they managed to get a hold of themselves and John went back to making tea while Sherlock went to sit in the living room.

While he was finishing up John thought of something to ask Sherlock. He was hoping it would help the detective feel less left out and it also meant they would be able to spend some time together.

He walked back into the living room carrying two mugs of tea and put one in front of Sherlock. "Why don't you come over for dinner one day, Sherlock?"

The detective's head snapped up in surprise. "To yours and Mary's?"

"Yeah," John sat down next to him on the sofa and sipped his tea. "You are Mary get along, which I still don't understand but I'm not complaining," he chuckled. "You could see the house, deduce our entire lives, as you like to do, and maybe we could even play a game of Cluedo."

At this the detectives' eyes lit up. He could always be bribed with a good game of Cluedo. "That seems acceptable," Sherlock conceded.

No matter how casual Sherlock sounded John could tell he was excited. And he suspected it wasn't just the idea of the game that pleased him. Having been invited to what was essentially John's new life was clearly a big part of Sherlock's decision making. But regardless of the reason John was just looking forward to spending some time with his best friend.

The same could be said for Sherlock. He now had an opportunity to see John without having to work around dinner times and work hours, or trying to convince him to come to the latest crime scene or bribing him with Mrs Hudson's cooking.

They settled on a time and date, not long after John and Mary's return from their honeymoon. John didn't leave until Sherlock promised that he would make it and no crime scene or experiment would keep him away.

When Sherlock closed the door behind John he felt more like himself. His headache was thankfully gone and he had actually thought of an experiment that he needed to conduct to help with one of Lestrade's cases.

He walked up the stairs to 221B already making a mental list of equipment he would need. When he entered the living room he was once again met with the sight of an empty flat, devoid of any of John's stuff, but more importantly devoid of John.

He found himself frozen in the middle of the living room staring at John's chair and trying to ignore the loneliness already creeping up his entire being.


	7. Chapter 7

When the day came to go to John and Mary's house, Sherlock spent the entire morning working himself up to it. He changed clothes about six different times, let three cups of tea go cold because he was thinking too much and forgot about them, and ignored the bell ringing for nearly a whole minute before he finally heard it.

It was Lestrade, asking for help on a case. Sherlock agreed to go but said he had to be back in good time. He even went with Lestrade in his police car, just to save time.

When he finally reached the house he actually felt excited. He had worked through every scenario in his head, from not knowing what to talk about to feeling like he was intruding to not liking the food, before coming here and now he felt confident he would actually be able to enjoy himself.

But after only a few minutes he realised that those weren't the sorts of things he should have been worrying about. He looked around the house and saw John's possessions scattered all over, mixed in with Mary's, and surrounded by new items that clearly belonged to both. Sherlock could remember where each and every single one of John's things had been at Baker Street, and the hole they had left behind.

At dinner he had to keep himself from fidgeting. He kept tapping his foot and fingering melodies on his thigh to try to calm himself down. Everywhere he looked he saw the life that John had been building without him and he suddenly felt out of place.

John and Mary had clearly done their best to make Sherlock feel comfortable. Dinner had been one of his favourite dishes, and if Sherlock didn't say much no one forced him to talk. Instead John and Mary kept the conversation going by themselves until the detective joined in. But even so Sherlock still felt like a third wheel.

The couple already had their own inside jokes and domestic habits. Not that it was surprising; they had been living together for some time now. But while he was happy that John had found someone, it hurt him to see the life that he was missing out on. Regardless of what he may have said he always enjoyed living with John, and not just because he did the shopping and cooking. It felt good to have someone around, even if they weren't always doing things together. It felt even better to have someone to worry about him and remind him to take care of his transport. There were times when he genuinely forgot because he was too busy with a case and John was always there to remind him.

After a tour of the house, dinner and two games of Cluedo Sherlock couldn't take it anymore so he made an excuse to leave. He told John that he had to go home and start an experiment to help Lestrade on a case. It wasn't even a complete lie; Lestrade did need his help, but all Sherlock needed at the moment was to look through all the evidence.

When he left the house he couldn't bring himself to go back to Baker Street. The only thing that would accomplish would be to remind him of how alone he left. It didn't matter that John had told him that he would always be there for him and that nothing and no one were going to replace him. Sherlock believed that, he really did, but that didn't change the fact that he felt like he was taking up space in John's life. Space that John could fill with bigger and better things.

He wandered the streets of London until morning when he went to visit Lestrade to work on the case. He kept this up for days, only returning to Baker Street to shower and change clothes; otherwise he was either at Scotland Yard, the crime scene or at Bart's conducting his investigation. Most of the time he worked through the night so that neither Molly nor Lestrade saw that he wasn't doing much of anything else. Occasionally he would collapse on the sofa and fall asleep for a few hours but as soon as he woke up he went right back to work. He had to keep his mind occupied and the work had always been one of two ways.

But eventually the work ran out. No matter how big Lestrade's caseload was, it wasn't infinite, and there were many cases he could solve without Sherlock's help. At this point Sherlock had no choice but to go back to the flat. But as soon as he walked in he was met, once again, with the painful sight of John's empty chair.

He stripped off his coat, throwing it on the sofa carelessly, rolled up his sleeves and made his way over to the chair. It took a while but eventually he was able to drag it all the way up to the room upstairs- John's old room, his brain supplied uselessly. When he was done he sat in his own chair and simply stared. All he could see was the kitchen. There were no more morose empty chairs to upset him, and he thought he'd solved his problem. But unfortunately John's presence lingered all over the flat.

As he looked at the kitchen all Sherlock could think about were all the times they had poured over cases on the table and all the take away they had eaten there because they were too tired to make dinner for themselves. John was everywhere he looked, and yet he was nowhere.

After that he avoided Baker Street as much as he could. He started spending his afternoons with Mrs Hudson. He helped her with the shopping and even had some cooking lessons from her. After that he spent some time at Angelo's under the pretence of surveillance for a case, but that only lasted a few days.

When Lestrade text him about a case he jumped at the chance for something to do. But it was boring and easy and took barely any time to solve. He was desperate for something to keep his mind occupied; the alternative to the work was starting to sound very appealing.

It was three days after that Sherlock met Wiggins through his homeless network. After days and days of trying desperately to keep his mind occupied and utterly failing it didn't take long for Sherlock to give in to his habit again. With no one nagging, worrying or watching him, Sherlock felt free to do whatever he wanted. And what he wanted was to get high.

He started spending most of his time in an endless cycle of getting high and coming down and getting high again. He ignored every text and call on his mobile, trying to tell himself that it wasn't John's name on his screen. He would have continued that way if one day he hadn't had to return to Baker Street to get more money and scared Mrs Hudson half to death with his appearance. When she asked he told her it was for a case. When she asked why John had come over looking for him Sherlock told her that the case was too dangerous for John so he hadn't told him.

Sherlock felt bad about lying to Mrs Hudson but he didn't have to worry for long when he stumbled across Charles Augustus Magnussen. He now had a distraction as well as what he felt was a genuine excuse for his behaviour. He couldn't just give up the drugs because Magnussen would know he was pretending, and he had to believe Sherlock wasn't a threat- that the drugs were his pressure point.

It wasn't long into his investigation when Sherlock realised that he would need to get close to Janine. He cleaned up and played the part with her when he needed to, and it even served to settle Mrs Hudson's worries when she saw him around Baker Street again.

The investigation was progressing, but slowly. The detective tried not to think about how much quicker it would go if he had John by his side, but he couldn't bring himself to pick up the phone.

He tried to remind himself he didn't believe in coincidences when, one day, John Watson inadvertently came to him. it had been so long since he'd seen or spoken to John that he couldn't keep the smile off his face when he finally saw his friend. It took a while for him to realise where he was, what he looked like, and what was clearly implied in the place John had found him in.

But Sherlock Holmes was, after all, a master in the art of disguise. So he pretended he was okay, pushed away John's and Mycroft's concerns, and kept telling himself that the drugs were the only pressure point he had to worry about.

It wasn't until he saw Mary with a gun pointed at Magnussen's head and felt the tendrils of guilt wrapping themselves around him again that he realised his mistake. He had done what he blamed so many others for; seeing but not observing. And in doing so he had made a very serious mistake.

As the bullet entered and wreaked havoc on his body he had one final thought before the pain took over.

 _Caring is not an advantage._


End file.
